


Sleeping At Last

by Measured



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Community: hc_bingo, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2202612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have the nightmares returned?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping At Last

**Author's Note:**

> hc_bingo: insomnia one of Noire's sparkling tile conversations notes that battles take a toll on her, and she doesn't sleep well, thus is miserable all day. (Which explains her "So...tired" battle quote). 
> 
> This takes place between the A and S supports.

She had turned in early, when it was barely twilight, and there was still the murmur of activity across the encampment. Her body ached from the day's march and battle to a distracting point. Not enough to distract her from the constant threat of Risen, of fate repeating. The healing staves hadn't pulled the ache from her, even if they healed her broken bones.

With a slight groan, she rose up and pushed the tent flap aside. Usually it was only Frederick who would be out this late, tending to the fire and keeping watch. He always kept the longest watches, sometimes taking two or more slots just to give everyone else more rest. 

Tonight, another had taken care to tend the fire and keep watch for roving bands of Risen. She clutched the tent flap a little tighter, before letting it fall. Night masked the landscape. Laurent's face was shaded by his large hat. He didn't even take it off when it shaded his sight, and made reading harder.

It was his last memento of his mother, after all. 

A tome was spread out on his lap. Each flicker of the flame brought new fears—was that Risen she heard? The flash of magic and another hex?

The fears were always with her, even when irrational. But she didn't dare cling to her talisman, lest she snap again, and completely drive him away.

"Is it that you couldn't sleep again?" He didn't look back. She couldn't tell his expression, and his voice was always so even, she couldn't tell if it was restrained anger, or simply restrained because it was _Laurent_. 

"Yes, I....I thought I was alone," she said. She averted her gaze. She still hadn't apologized for her outburst of the other day. The words got lost in her. She nodded, then cursed herself. He couldn't see a gesture at this angle.

"Have you tried an infusion of herbs? My mother pioneered a study of lavender as a sleeping aid. She always was challenging the teachings of hedgewitches to prove if they were superstitions or based in fact. I sometimes think she took on magic simply to prove they weren't charlatans...."

When he talked about his mother, his voice was always warm, and yet there was such sadness. He'd never found her, and yet without proof, he wouldn't let go. He couldn't bring himself to believe that she had shared the same fate as the rest.

When Noire talked about her mother, it was like speaking of a ghost which might return if she spoke its name. One that she longed to be haunted by, and feared all at once.

"No, I haven't," she said.

"My mother always said that it was useless to try and conduct research with a diminished mental capacity due to fatigue, or unrest. It is a waste of time to write research which will have to be edited, or even could contain logical fallacies or misapplied findings which would render all that time wasted. Conversation is very similar in that respect. Taking on such affairs without the right capacity could be devastating."

Leave it to Laurent to time his conversations to when they'd be most efficient. She hid her hint of a smile behind her hand, as if she were just rubbing the side of her mouth. It was only after that she questioned the _why_ of it. Why hide what little positive aspects she had?

Noire came before the fire. It wouldn't due to wake up half the camp; she'd already done that twice this week from waking up screaming, caught in the clutches of another nightmare.

"You're not ...angry at me?" Noire said. She came closer, closer until she could see his face. Lit by firelight, he smiled faintly at her.

"No. Not in the least."

He patted the ground beside him. Noire sat a breadth apart, her knees to her chest. She stared at the fire, like she hadn't realized. It hadn't been like this before. It wasn't like this with Cynthia, or Severa. The knowing of touch, the constant recognition that it would only take a step to be nearer.

It'd taken her a while to know. He'd been there all along, caring for all of them, even if it meant staying to do the ledgers, to ensure that everyone had enough weapons. He wasn't flashy, the sworn hero like Cynthia or Owain. Laurent was their balance, their calm. His strength was beyond physical strength, even his skill at magic. He'd kept them all together when the group was on the brink of falling to pieces. Even now, with tacticians and these mirrors of their parents, close but not quite the same, he reminded them to keep going.

He was quiet and understated, the foundation, the frame of them all.

And it was only when she thought she'd truly driven him away that she knew how much he meant not just to the group, but to her. He had always been there. Fussy, at times. Gentle, overbearing, the evenness that she lacked. The clattering insider her stopped around him, turning new and low-pitch. A murmur, a breath.

She'd rarely seen him without a book in hand, his glasses fallen down his nose. Now it was familiar concern that marked his handsome features.

"Have the nightmares returned?" Laurent said.

Of course he didn't have to ask if she had them; they all did. They all came in different shades. Hers were the skeletal whiteness of her mother, the flash of magic and blood, Noire's life paid for with a curse.

Noire rubbed at her knees, a coldness deeper than fear, winter or memory filling her. 

"...They never left," she said.

He nodded. She thought his nightmares must be shades of constant searching, a path to nowhere, though he had never told her. Serious and calm, he kept his own fears and insecurities hidden. 

Hers were always on display, whether she wanted to or not. 

"It would be advantageous to save this conversation for the morning. Clearer minds will prevail," he said.

Just the knowledge that he wasn't angry made something in her loosen. Her shoulders slumped in fatigue. He pushed his cloak aside, and before she knew it, he had bridged the distance. Draped across her shoulders, she could see the edge of his jaw.

"This could be presumptuous on my part. If so, then please tell me. I will do my best to listen better this time. But, perhaps you will be able to rest better over here. I wouldn't want you to fall ill again."

She pulled the cloak tighter around her and closed the last distance. He smelled of herbs and blood, old books and somehow, something like home. The nearest she'd ever known. The material of his robes was rough against her cheek. Some kind of warmth was building in her, growing past the cold, the fear.

"...Thank you," she said.

"Rest well. I have many things to speak about when morning comes," he said.

At this angle, she could only see the shadows of his face, the hint of a smile. She thought maybe, just maybe, he felt the same warmth as her.


End file.
